


i'll be by your side, any time you're needing me

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Ghost!Robb, Happy Ending, Matchmaker Robb, he just wants them all to be happy okay, once again I've managed to write a ridiculous amount of words and still not have any real plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-05 10:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15861993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: Robb doesn’t mind being dead, exactly. It’s mostly just a minor inconvenience, really, because he can’t tell anyone that they’re making a huge mistake; but he doesn’t have to worry about ruling the North, so that’s a huge advantage.Another drawback of death, of course, is that it can be pretty boring; but he spends quite a bit of time channeling that boredom into his elaborate matchmaking scheme (elaborate, of course, being an over exaggeration; he mostly just locks Jon and Sansa in rooms alone together and makes Daenerys trip over), so, really, it’s not as boring as it could be.//Robb is dead. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to split this into 3 parts even though I originally intended it to be a one shot. It's a lot, when it's all together. 
> 
> It is entirely written and edited, but I have super dodgy internet at the moment, so it may take few days to have it entirely uploaded.
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual.

Robb doesn’t mind being dead, exactly. It’s mostly just a minor inconvenience, really, because he can’t tell anyone that they’re making a huge fucking mistake; but he doesn’t have to worry about ruling the North, so that’s a huge advantage.

He does, of course, have to worry about the remaining living members of his family and their seemingly unending stupidity. In particular, his baby sister Sansa and his newly-revealed-cousin Jon, and their inability to just . . . get married, or something.

It’s both a constant source of amusement and toe-curling, eye-twitching frustration.

Robb knows, of course, that there’s a lot standing in their way; in particular, a certain white-haired beauty who is _literally_ standing right between them. The White Walkers are less of an issue in Robb’s humble opinion; in fact, he thinks they might in fact push them closer together. ‘ _We may never see each other again’_ confessions would be ideal, but he’ll settle for some angsty tears and a heartfelt goodbye.

Arya is another obstacle, because if Robb knows anything about his sister (and he’s tried really hard to understand the choices she’s made) then he thinks that she’ll probably be pretty against a union between them.

Of course, Sansa and Jon also have to overcome their own feelings of perversion about their attraction, but Robb has faith they’ll eventually come together. They just need a little bit of a push, which Robb is _more_ that happy to provide.

Another drawback of death, of course, is that it can be pretty fucking boring; but he spends quite a bit of time channeling that boredom into his elaborate matchmaking scheme (elaborate, of course, being an over exaggeration; he mostly just locks them in rooms alone together and makes Daenerys trip over), so, really, it’s not as boring as it could be.

Still, being dead is objectively _not_ the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

 

Robb isn’t stuck in Winterfell. When he’d first woken up after his death, he’d been at the Twins, a sick joke played on him by cruel gods. He doesn’t remember much from those first few weeks except an overwhelming feeling of despair.

He’d come across his mother eventually, a huge weeping gash on her throat, her face as white as the snow outside. He remembers with vivid clarity his final moments in life, the anguish of watching his wife and unborn child die, and the sharp pain from a dagger embedding itself that had bloomed in his chest and spread to every part of his body.

He must have died before Catelyn had had her throat slit, because surely he would remember something so horrid as the wound that still weeps with her lifesblood.

He wondered if he looked as deathly as she did; his answer is clear when a second later Catelyn cried out with torrid desolation at the sight of her eldest son, her hands fluttering over the wounds on his stomach.

Still, they’d embraced each other and not let go for hours.

After, they hadn’t much discussed what had gone wrong in the war against the Lannisters. They talked mostly of happy memories, which suited Robb fine because misery is an emotion he had become all too familiar with in his final moons on Westeros.

The pair mostly stayed out of the way of the living, their anger too white hot to bare looking at them.

They came across other people – Robb hates the word ‘ghost’ but it is the mast apt description – but the others came and went a lot. Robb often sought his mothers counsel on whether they should interact with the other dead, but death made Catelyn Stark weary of even the most trustworthy.

Eventually, though, on a morning when Catelyn was near catatonic with misery, Robb decided to speak to someone.

Surely, he thought, someone must have more information on whether they are doomed to this horrid life. The first person he found answered that, “Yes, we are stuck. There is nothing more than this,” and Robb vowed to never be as hopeless as that old fool.

So he sought more answers. He found, eventually, that you could watch other people’s lives.

“My family?” he demanded of the young serving girl, who had a large rounded stomach and blood dripping down her legs (she’d died from childbirth). “Can I watch my family?”

Her voice was eerie, light, and it was extremely creepy. Robb vowed to never let his personality drift so far from him.

“If you can focus, you can watch the journey of your loved ones,” she told him in that dreamy voice.

“Focus? How do I focus?”

She just smiled a thin-lipped smile, then floated away from him and down the hall, a sick melody following her.

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke_

_That Lord of Castamere_

_And now the rains weep o'er his halls_

_With no one there to hear_

He went back to his mother feeling nauseous from a betrayal that had doomed him to this life, but with a new determination. When the castle went still that night, Robb secluded himself to try and peer into the lives of his family. He started with Jon; Robb knew where Jon was, so figured it would be easiest to spy on him.

Robb saw only bits and pieces: it seemed Jon had become Lord Commander, but his leadership was in a precarious place. Robb knew the feeling. No one wants to make the hard decisions themselves, he thought bitterly, but they critique every decision you make. Still, Robb approved of Jon’s decision to behead Slynt; it showed the commitment needed to be a leader (Robb only later learnt of Slynt’s part in his father’s murder, and Robb thinks back on this moment often; in his darkest moments, he wishes Jon hadn’t had the mercy to make it a quick death).

Robb had been fairly satisfied with Jon’s place. It wasn’t ideal, obviously, but neither is an early death, and Jon seemed to have made something of himself at the Night’s Watch, from the small amount Robb had glimpsed.

So he looked to his youngest sister. Last he’d known, the Lannisters held her and Sansa.

When he focused on her, though, on his fierce little warrior sister, she wasn’t in King’s Landing. She wasn’t even on Westeros. A fear coiled in his gut as he caught little glimpses of his baby sister, his little Arya. Becoming No One is a terrible aspiration, in Robb’s opinion, but at least she seemed safe as well. He vaguely saw her bury her sword, Needle, and Robb hadn’t known then why she was doing that but he’d been glad she was keeping it safe.

And then Robb turned to Sansa. He had hoped she wasn’t in King’s Landing, either. He had almost wept with joy when he saw her back in Winterfell. At the time, she seemed to have only just arrived back. It had been a bittersweet feeling, seeing her come back home.

But then, he had caught s a glimpse of who was greeting her. Roose Bolton.

If Robb had any blood it would have run cold at the sight of the man who had murdered him.

Such emotion overcame Robb that he could no longer see his beautiful sister with her dyed hair. Gods. He had tried to channel his anger back into focus, but he found he could not.

It was many days before he caught another glimpse of any of his family, but it had been only horror that he found with any of them. He watched Arya wash dead bodies, and then he watched her lie to convince a young woman to poison herself. Robb felt sick to his stomach at the sight of his sister, and what she’d been forced to become.

But watching his other sister was worse.

He watched Sansa walk down the aisle to meet Bolton’s son; she had hidden it well, but he could see she was completely terrified. She looked so pretty, in her white dress.

Robb felt bile rise in his throat.

But it got worse – oh, so much worse. Robb could barely keep his eyes open to see Ramsey take Sansa to his chambers, but Robb did not leave.

Sansa may never see him, will never know he was here, but he would not leave her to be alone.

Robb watched as Ramsey tore open the back of his sister’s dress; watched Ramsey push her down on the bed. Robb had fallen to his knees beside the bed, tears in his eyes as he watched his beloved sister cry as she’d been violated, and Robb had sworn he would do whatever it took to get to her.

Finding someone who knew anything about the restrictions of life-post-death had been difficult. Eventually, he’d been guided to one of the oldest souls at the Twins, who had shed some light – if still a bit depressing – on the situation.

“No, you aren’t stuck here, but travelling for us is dangerous,” the old man had murmured, scars blotted all over his body but with no obvious fatal wound. “You would want to go to a place that you have a strong emotional connection, so as to ground yourself. If you spend too long somewhere you aren’t connected, you float away. This life is awful, being stuck in a place you were killed, but it’s better than being just a consciousness.”

Robb decided it was worth the risk.

He’d urgently informed his mother that night, and the two of them had set out on a desperate journey to Winterfell.

Reality had been twisted on the way to Winterfell. They’d travelled, in the most objective sense of the word, but it had felt much more warped than that. Robb had worried, constantly, that they wouldn’t make it. The only thing that had kept him going was the memory of his innocent sister bent over a bed, trying to stay strong as she was tortured.

When they’d reached Winterfell, maybe days, maybe weeks later, everything instantly clicked back into place. The tenuousness that had plagued him suddenly disappeared, and it was like his vision became solid again.

His father had already been there for years.

Together, the three had lived in Winterfell through Ramsey’s reign and Sansa’s escape; and had watched from afar as Sansa was reunited with a recently reanimated Jon.

The first time Robb had tilted in his head in a mild curiosity at their behavior was as they stood on the battlements of Winterfell together. There had been an intimacy between them that had extended just a little bit further than familial.

Between their genuine smiles and then their eyes lingering on the others’ lips for more than an appropriate time, Robb had seen the beginnings of something interesting.

It was only later that same day that Robb decided he was going to act as their friendly (un)dead matchmaker. He, Ned and Catelyn had lingered in the back of the Great Hall, Sansa and Jon sitting at the head table, the Northern Lords gathered together.

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with Wilding invaders!” Lord Royce objected.

“We didn’t invade,” the tall red haired wilding interjected. Robb thought his name was Tormund. “We were invited.”

Yes, Robb knew all about that; had watched as Jon’s brothers at the Wall murdered him for his decision. Once upon a time, he would have objected to Wildings south of the Wall in the same manner as the Lords. But Robb’s dead, and yet still hanging around, so really, he’s seen weirder things than a Night King and White Walkers.

Robb believed Jon then, and believes him now.

Jon stood. “The Free Folk, the Northerners and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won. My father used to say, we find our true friends on the battlefield.”

Robb discreetly looked over to his father and mother. Ned flinches at the mentions of his fatherhood of Jon, and Catelyn sniffs and looks away.

“Catelyn, there’s something I’ve never shared with you. Something I’ve known, but never said again since I learned it.”

Robb remained watching Jon and Sansa, but listened to what his father was saying. Robb knew, even then, that whatever his father said would change everything.

Catelyn turned her head, unable to meet Ned’s eye, but still unable to watch Jon at the head of the hall and receive the glory that had been Robb’s.

Robb never envied Jon his position, not when the Lords proclaimed him King in the North, their shouts echoing in his head as Ned spilled his sordid secret of Jon’s true parentage, and certainly not now, as Jon tries to rally the Northerners around an unworthy Queen who is also the only one who can defeat the true enemy.

Robb isn’t particularly worried about the outcome of the Great War, though perhaps he should be. Ned and Catelyn certainly are, because they wish for their children to live long and happy lives.

Jon, Sansa, Arya and Bran have now lived longer than Robb ever did, and experienced things worse than Robb could have imagined. Death is peaceful, now that he’s in Winterfell, and while Robb doesn’t actively wish death upon his family, he now knows there are worse things.

There are things he longs for; he wishes he could have seen the birth of his child, seen them grow old. But he doesn’t ever need to worry about food; he’s never hungry, he’s never too cold or too hot, he doesn’t need to concern himself with sickness or injury, and he doesn’t have a kingdom to protect.

There are worse things than this.

So, no, if his family dies, Robb won’t be concerned. While his mother and father spend their time worrying constantly, Robb can spend it doing better things; like trying to get Jon and Sansa to admit their undying love.

He’s doing it just now, in fact.

Jon and Sansa are in the Lords chambers, all others having retired for the night. It’s very late; the sun will be rising again in only a couple hours. The rest of their retinue were here, even Daenerys and her advisors, but they left hours ago for the promise of a quick rest before more meetings with other lords in the morning.

While Robb couldn’t influence much while there were so many others around, he most certainly can interfere now.

He puts three of the eight candles out, then holds his hands over one of the logs in the fire to dim it to embers; when raging only seconds before, it now settles down.

The light in the room dims very quickly, to quite a romantic setting in Robb’s opinion, but neither of the pair hardly notice; though they do both put their faces slightly closer to their papers and squint in an effort to read them easier.

Robb rolls his eyes. “I think you should both appreciate the effort I’m going to,” he tells them both, though obviously they can’t hear. “It’s very tiresome to try and get two people to marry.”

Robb walks behind them, then casually kicks a vase in the corner of the room, just enough for it to make a noise but not enough to break it or knock it over.

They both startle at the sound, and Sansa turns to watch Jon get up and go over to see what made the noise. While they’re both preoccupied, Robb blows on the table, their papers shuffling slightly away from their original positions – not enough to mess anything up, but hopefully enough to get them to take a break.

It does the trick; when Jon joins Sansa again and they both turn back to their tasks, they both groan. Jon’s head falls forward, banging on to the table, and Sansa leans heavily back in her chair, her head dangling back.

“Let’s retire for the evening,” Jon grumbles, his eyes already closing.

“It has gotten very late,” Sansa agrees, her own eyes drifting closed.

Robb had been hoping for a little more action than this, but he can’t begrudge them some sleep.

“I best return to my own chambers,” Jon says, though a loud yawn punctuates the middle of his sentence and he doesn’t move.

“Mm,” Sansa hums, but then says, “it’s much too late for you to traverse the castle. Stay here tonight.”

Jon hesitates, his eyes slowly opening to look at Sansa. She remains where she is, apparently unfazed by her suggestion, even though it’s most improper.

It’s more than Robb could have hoped for. He wonders, sometimes, if it’s weird that he’s facilitating this. Probably not, he decides.

“I don’t mind,” Jon says, quietly, obviously trying to give her an out but desperately wanting to accept her offer.

In a panic, Robb kicks the vase again. They both jump, again, and Jon frowns at the corner where Robb stands while Sansa’s brow furrows and she bites her lip.

“You can protect me from whatever is deigning to make such ungodly noises in my own chamber.”

Jon smiles tiredly at her. “Well, I can hardly deny that request from the Lady of the House.”

Sansa quirks her lips up at him, but her eyes are obviously heavy. She retreats into her bedchambers, and Robb grins as he watches Jon look rather longingly after her, then sighs and starts to remove his outer layers of clothes.

“Pathetic,” Robb tells his younger brother, “you’re an absolute fool.”

As Jon is piling pillows and throws onto the floor in front of the fire, Sansa reappears in the doorway, hair braided down her back and clothed in a sweet nightdress.

Jon hasn’t noticed her arrival, and Sansa lingers in the doorway, biting her lip as she stares at him.

Robb wants so desperately to know what’s going through her head.

“Jon,” she says, and there’s a nervous waver to her voice that Robb recognizes from their childhood. Jon straightens immediately, and turns to her. “The bed is big enough for two.”

Jon visibly gulps. “Uh, yes. Yes, alright . . . Are you sure? I can stay out here.”

While Jon’s honour is absolutely infuriating in how it hinders progress, Robb also knows the only reason he’s so willing to watch them marry is because he knows Jon would treat his sister as she deserves.

Jon’s cute nervous squeaks must alleviate some of Sansa’s own nervousness, because she rolls her eyes and tilts her head back towards the bed.

“Yes, it’s alright.”

If Robb weren’t so invested in this now, and hadn’t basically orchestrated this entire incident himself, he’d be rather miffed about it all, really. Two unmarried individuals shouldn’t be staying in the same chambers, let alone the same bed.

But he is invested, and he did orchestrate it, so honestly this is the best outcome possible.

“Would you mind bringing those blankets, though?”

Sansa bites her lip again, and Jon nods quickly in agreement. “Of course, Sansa. Of course.”

He bends to pick them up, then follows Sansa into the bedchambers. Robb follows giddily behind them. Neither say anything; they just awkwardly shuffle around, getting comfortable, and then mumble out a goodnight.

“Boring,” Robb sighs as Jon blows out the candlelight.

He waits for a few moments, but neither speak any more, and their breathing evens out very quickly, so Robb figures his interfering is done for the night.

Robb goes back out into the hall, then wanders past a few doors. Arya and Bran are sound asleep, and Robb has no desire to see what Daenerys and her retinue are up to. He spends some time meandering, as he often does at this time of day, and then he goes to find his mother and father and see what they’ve been up to. Not much, as usual.

When the sun breaks over the horizon, Robb makes his way back to Jon and Sansa. It’s creepy, probably, but he’s very bored again and some light entertainment in the morning never goes amiss.

They’re in the same position they were when he left and Robb groans in frustration. This is a missed opportunity if he does nothing, Robb knows.

So, carefully, Robb pulls down the corner of Sansa’s blanket, near her face, to let some cold air in. She instinctively scoots back a little, but not enough and Robb rolls his eyes.

Could they just fall into each other’s arms already?

“For fucks sake,” he grumbles, “you two are so much effort.”

Still, he’s come this far. Still careful not to touch her, Robb leans down – considers his post-life choices, once again, because gods this is weird – and then gently blows on her face, just enough to make it tickle.

Sansa’s nose twitches, and the disturbance combined with the cold air is enough to make her roll over and directly into Jon’s arms.

They squeeze together immediately. Jon winds one arm around her waist – though he is above her blankets but below his own – and Sansa tucks her head under his chin, one hand tucked between them and the other resting on his chest.

Jon sighs, a heavy, peaceful sigh, though he’s clearly still asleep; but the sound and movement is enough to make Sansa blink awake. Her eyes are only slits, and she lifts her head slightly to take stock of the situation. She freezes, obviously terrified, but quickly realizes it’s only Jon.

Robb wonders if she’ll get up, or maybe just turn away. But she puts her head back down, and looks at Jon for a moment, and then closes her eyes and snuggles back in to him. She’s asleep again within a minute.

Robb can’t believe how successful this mission went, and he grins like a madman all the way back to Ned and Catelyn.

“What are you smiling about?” Catelyn asks with narrowed eyes and a suspicious purse to her lips. It’s a particularly gruesome look with her pale face and dripping neck.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, though he doesn’t even bother trying to hide his smirk.

Catelyn looks at him for several more seconds, then obviously decides his odd behavior is not worth her time and turns away from him again.

Robb wonders what he’s going to do tomorrow to try and get them together.

 

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, it turns out. When the castle wakes up later the same day, Jon and Sansa don’t even have time to break their fast before their presence is required in meetings.

Robb wanders around the castle for a little, watching Arya sneak around and learn peoples dirty little secrets, then goes and watches Bran for a bit, but even Robb in his omniscient dead state can’t see everything Bran see’s, so ultimately he ditches that, too.

He, as always, finds himself back in the company of Jon and Sansa - and the council meeting that is _still_ going.

Horror grows on him as he realizes they’re talking about mobilizing as soon as next week.

The door bursts open and Samwell Tarly squeaks a loud, “Jon!” from the doorway.

Everyone turns to glare at him in bewilderment at his rude and improper entry.

“Yes, Sam?” Jon calls impatiently. “What is it?”

“Uh, excuse me, my apologies everyone, I didn’t mean to –“

“Sam!” Jon snaps. Obviously the discussion has him on edge.

Sam’s eyes flick to Jon. “I need to speak with you immediately, Lord Snow.”

Jon sighs in irritation. “Now? Are you sure?”

Sam must lose his own patience with Jon because his tone brooks no argument. “Yes, now.”

Jon stands and excuses himself from the table, and hurries to the door. Robb goes to follow, but stops when Sansa beings to speak again.

“Forgive me My Lords, Your Grace, but does a week not seem overly ambitious? With nigh on a hundred thousand men, I just don’t see how this could be possible.”

Lord Cerwyn opens his mouth to respond, but Jon’s sharp voice cuts through, even from the doorway.

“Is this true?” he asks, something like fear in his voice. “Sam, _is this true_?”

“It’s not the only report we’ve received like it,” he murmurs, his voice much quieter than Jon’s but able to travel through to the group in such silence.

Jon scrubs a hand down his face. “Okay. Alright, thank you, Sam. Uh, Sansa will come with you now to order and prepare for an evacuation for everyone north of the Dreadfort.”

Sansa stands, her chair scraping. “Jon. What’s happened?”

“Give me a moment,” Jon says to Sam, then comes back to address the council.

Without preamble, Jon announces, “The Wall has fallen. We’re going to evacuate those we can immediately; we must mobilize _now.”_

Sansa excuses herself, her face pale, then goes to join Sam at the door.

“Lady Sansa made the point that we have too many men to mobilize in even a week, and I agree!” Lord Manderly says. “How could we possibly hope to leave sooner than that?”

“The Wall was our last defense and it’s gone now,” Jon says flatly. “We have no hope now other than going to fight as soon as we can.”

Dread settles in Robb’s stomach. It’s bleak. Too bleak.

Robb scurries out of the room to follow Sansa; she and Sam are already at the other end of the hall, walking very briskly to Sansa’s chambers.

“Should we try and send them further south, do you think?” Sansa is asking. “Those who can?”

“And send them where? No one holds the Twins since – well, since, y’know – and I mean, I suppose you could them to Moat Cailin but it’s not in well enough shape to keep them warm enough, I would think –“

“Do the Lannisters still hold Riverrun?” Sansa asks.

“I believe so, My Lady.”

“I don’t think I could convince Robin Arryn to let in thousands of Northern refugees after I murdered Baelish. We’ll just have to make do here, I suppose. I’ll begin penning evacuation orders; would you go and collect the grain records? We’ll have to reorganize our rationing system.”

“Of course, My Lady.”

“I’ll meet you in my chambers, Sam. Hurry.”

Sam scurries off and as soon as he’s turned the corner, Sansa stops, folding her arms around her stomach.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers to herself, falling back against the wall and turning her head to press her check against the stone. “They’re going to be fine. You can do this, Sansa.”

Despite her self-talk, her breathing becomes fast and shallow. Her back slides down the wall until she’s crouched in what must an uncomfortable position.

“Pull yourself together you stupid woman,” she whispers furiously, pulling the ends of her hair roughly. Her breathing gets harsher, her eyes fall closed and then she’s banging her head back against the wall.

“Can’t even get up,” she mutters. “You can’t even get up, how can you help anyone?”

Robb can’t bear to watch, but he’s not leaving. So he slides down next to her and wishes more than anything that he could take her hand.

“I know you can’t hear me, Sansa,” Robb starts quietly. “But I just . . . I can’t let you sit here and say these things about yourself.”

She doesn’t respond obviously, just continues muttering on, pulling her hair and banging her head.

“You’re the only person I know who could do this,” Robb says. “No one else has your pure strength and bravery, your political training, and your compassion. They wouldn’t care about refugees, and they wouldn’t reallocate grain stores.”

Sansa goes quiet, stops pulling at her hair. Encouraged, Robb continues. “We would never have gotten Winterfell back without you. Arya would never have come home. Bran would never have come home. Hell, even Jon – who knows what he would have done if you hadn’t shown up when you did. You’ve changed everything, Sansa, and there is no doubt in my mind that you’re going to be the best Queen the North has ever seen.”

Sansa is completely still now, her breathing harsh but going back to normal.

“I’m so –“ Robb pauses, let’s himself push back his own tears that threaten to rise. “I’m _so_ proud of you.”

Sansa stays still for a couple more minutes, lets herself collect her breathing. Then she wipes away her tears, says, “There’s no one who would do it like me,” and pushes off the wall to stand up.

She takes another couple seconds to compose herself, probably has a bit of a headrush, then she wipes her face, tucks her hair behind her ears, and walks off into the direction of her chambers.

Robb smiles after her.

“So proud of you, baby sister.”

 

Robb bites his lip as he waits beside Jon for Sansa to open the door. They’ve not spoken since the meeting earlier in the day, and Robb is anxious for their private discussion.

He wants desperately to know what they’re both thinking. It’s all very real now; they’ve been fighting towards this for years and now that it’s here, it must be surreal.

Sansa looks as though she’s been crying again.

“Jon,” she whispers, and her voice cracks.

Jon embraces her immediately, cradling her head to his shoulder gently, then walking them back and into her chambers, Jon kicking the door closed behind him.

“Rude,” Robb mutters, then goes through the door.

They’re hovering just inside, still embracing. Sansa clings to the back of Jon’s cloak, while he rubs slow circles on her back.

“We’ll ride out with the sun rise,” Jon murmurs.

Sansa’s breath hitches. “So early?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Sansa’s grip on his cloak tightens, her fingers trembling. “I’m scared, Jon.”

He pulls back from her, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “They won’t get this far. I won’t let them.”

“That’s not what she meant,” Robb sighs, exasperated.

Sansa sighs, too, then just says, “I believe you.”

Jon must realize that that’s not what she meant, too, but Sansa pulls away before he can say anything else.

“Have you eaten this evening?” she asks him.

He pauses, obviously wondering if he should address what she said or just let her change the conversation.

“No,” he finally says. “Have you?”

Instead of answering, she goes to the door and pulls it open.

Robb hears Sansa murmuring to Brienne outside, as Jon sighs and shucks his cloak, laying it on the back of one of the chairs in front of the fire. He runs a hand through his curls, then turns back to Sansa, who is closing the door again.

“Are you prepared to ride out tomorrow?” Sansa asks, her chin tilted up and her voice carefully detached. “Do you have everything you need?”

Jon eyes her warily, obviously unsure how to answer her when she acted so. Robb had noticed, of course, that Sansa’s carefully manicured persona so often crashed to the ground when it was just she and Jon. Jon probably doesn’t know how to act around the Winter Queen, as the smallfolk had taken to calling her.

“Yes,” Jon says slowly, sitting opposite her. “Daenerys is riding out on Drogon first, and I will take the lead on land. We want to reach Last Hearth in a sennight.”

“That’s an awfully fast mobilization.” Sansa says, her fingers tapping on the armchair. Robb agrees. “You think you can get so many men so far North that quickly?”

“We’ve already wasted too much time,” Jon replies firmly, and Robb notices it’s not really an answer.

If Sansa does too, she doesn’t say anything.

“You will write to me, won’t you?”

Jon smiles at her indulgently. “If I have the time.”

Sansa sighs and looks away from him, into the crackling fire. Robb comes and sits down in front of the hearth. He can’t feel any heat from the fire, but with the way both of his siblings chairs are angled, he can almost feel like he’s there, really there, and that he’s part of the conversation.

“I know I’m being silly,” Sansa says, still looking into the fire. “It’s the wishful thinking of a stupid girl that her knight in armor will write to her while he’s away fighting war.”

She pauses again. Robb wills Jon not to open his big mouth and interrupt her, because she obviously will keep speaking if nothing breaks her concentration.

Jon seems to hear Robb’s internal screaming, because he keeps his mouth tightly shut.

“I know I used to be a girl with silly fantasies, but I am that girl no longer. In her place is a woman with a hardened heart, and yet . . . it is soft enough still that I couldn’t bear to go moons without knowing you are safe, Jon. Perhaps it is a weakness, but I can’t –“

She cuts herself off, tears shining in her eyes. Jon slides from the chair and to his knees in front of Sansa. He grips her hands, and his tight hold makes her eyes move from the fire and to him.

“It isn’t weakness, Sansa. And I will. Write to you, I mean.”

Sansa leans forward as Jon presses a kiss to her knuckles.

A sharp knock on the door makes them both jump.

Sansa sniffs, then wipes a hand over her face and stands. Jon moves out of her way, and sits back up on his chair.

“It must be our food,” Sansa mutters as she walks to the door.

It is the food, but Arya and Bran stand at the door as well. Bran, as per usual, has a frightening calmness etched onto his face, and Arya has a grim set to her jaw.

“We thought we’d come to say a proper goodbye to Jon,” Bran says.

Immediately, Robb stands to go and find his mother and father.

They’re walking through the parapets, arm in arm.

“They’re saying goodbye,” Robb tells them.

Sadness etches itself even further into the lines of Ned’s face; he rubs his neck where the sharp line that marks his beheading runs.

Catelyn purses her lips, then pulls Ned gently by the arm.

“Come.”

Together, the three of them walk towards the Lord’s chamber. When they arrive, the four siblings sit huddled in front of the fire, picking at the meat and cheese Arya and Bran brought, and not speaking much.

There isn’t much to say, Robb knows. Gods, he hopes they all say they love each other; he wishes more than anything for just one chance to tell those he left behind that he loves them. He doesn’t want them to die and come here, then have them so close they can practically touch those they left, but not be able to ease their sadness any.

He wants to hold Talisa one last time, tell her that this fate was worth it because he _loved_ her; he wants to tell Sansa that she was always a courageous young woman and that he’s so proud of her; wants to tell Arya that her fierceness was always something he admired; wants to tell Bran that his creativity and fearlessness was a combination that always made Robb think Bran could take on the world and win; wants to tell Jon that his resilience makes him one of the most formidable foe’s anyone could ever face.

But he can’t. Not until they die and join him – maybe not even then.

It’s a torture that he wishes not to bestow upon his family.

It’s a somber night, and difficult to sit through, to watch his beloved family face such an uncertain fate, but he can’t help but feel grateful that he can almost pretend that he’s there with them. The only one missing is baby Rickon; Robb wonders where he is, if he wanders the field where he died, unable to ask anyone the questions Robb could that led him back to Winterfell. Robb hopes he made it to whatever is past _this._

In the morning, before the sun has started to rise, the four wake, still huddled by the fire. Arya gives Jon a fierce hug. Robb has to turn his head, fear beginning to bubble up in him.

It’s funny; he basically wanted this. He wanted this separation, to see what would happen. He wanted Jon and Sansa to confess they loved each other; he wanted Arya to fight along side the Baratheon boy and forgive him; he wanted Bran to play a pivotal role in the war and have people see past his disability.

He didn’t care if they died, because he knew they would come to the afterlife and live again afterwards.

He forgot how scared he’d been when he was alive, when he didn’t know what was after, how _strong_ the urge to live is – was. He forgot how much love can make you want to stay where you are and never leave, how it can make you irrationally protect another person.

Catelyn touches his arm.

“We’re going to go to the Heart tree.”

Robb nods. “I will see you there after they march out.”

Catelyn smiles slightly at him. “Don’t torture yourself.”

“I’ll join you shortly.”

Robb follows behind Arya and Bran as they go to leave, walking behind them as if he’s going to leave himself. Both of them are staying at Winterfell, so Robb knows he’ll see them shortly, but he almost wishes this moment would last forever.

“Jon and I will meet you both in the courtyard shortly,” Sansa tells Arya and Bran as they walk out the door.

Arya nods, says, “We’ll see you soon,” then wheels Bran down the hallway.

Sansa closes the door gently, and Robb debates on whether or not he’ll leave and give them the privacy they obviously desire.

No, he decides. He’s been creepily watching them this long, he’s not going to stop now, especially when he might never see them together again.

“Sansa,” Jon says, and there’s a determined tilt to his head, a hard set to his jaw. “If I don’t see you again –“

“No.” Sansa interrupts harshly. “You will.”

Jon’s eyes roam over her face. Surely, _surely,_ Sansa has come to the same conclusion that Robb has; that Jon thinks he will have to sacrifice himself in order to win the war.

“ _You will.”_ She repeats, fervently, and Robb almost believes her.

Sansa steps away from Jon, and goes to her dresser that’s pressed against the far wall. She opens the top drawer, and then pulls away a false bottom in it. Robb goes over to her curiously, to see what she’s getting. If he weren’t already dead, Robb’s heart would stop.

“Sansa,” Robb whispers, his hand hovering over hers. “Where did you get this?”

Sansa fists the ring, then sighs heavily, and unclenches her hand and turns to Jon.

“Littlefinger –“ Her voice cracks. She pauses. With a stronger voice, she starts again. “Littlefinger gave me this. I don’t know how he got it, and I hardly like to imagine. He gave it to me as a gift, though I think his ultimate goal was less than savory. But it was and still is precious to me nonetheless, and I would never, ever have turned it away, no matter the cost.”

Sansa walks over to Jon, and shows him what she’s holding.

He looks weary; Robb wonders if he recognizes it.

“It’s my mother’s wedding ring,” Sansa whispers. Jon stays completely still, his eyes fixed on the ring. “I know your relationship with her was . . . strained.”

Something like a whimper catches in Jon’s throat. “Sansa, I –.”

“But it’s important to me, and it was important to Father. When he gave it to her, it made her a Stark of the North. It made this her home.”

Sansa gently grabs one of Jon’s hands, and then puts the ring in his palm. “This is your home, Jon. You _will_ come home.”

Sansa pushes Jon’s fingers so he makes a fist around the ring, and Jon is still staring at it fervently.

“I will come home,” he murmurs dazedly.

Sansa reaches out, her fingertips touching his cheek. The rest of her hand flattens against his face, and Jon’s eyes flick up to her eyes.

Sansa steps closer to him. “You will come home to _me._ ”

Her fingers slide across his face, her thumb tracing his bottom lip. Jon is obviously unsure what to do, his hands hanging limply by his side, but when Sansa steps closer to him again, he places both hands on her waist.

“Sansa, I –“

His voice cuts off on a whimper as Sansa presses her forehead against his, their lips almost touching.

_The tension,_ Robb agonizes, if only just to break said tension for himself.

“Can I kiss you?” Sansa whispers.

“Yes,” Jon groans.

They both take several deep breaths, then Sansa tilts her head forward.

A sharp knock on the door makes Sansa jump and Jon groan and let his head fall back.

“Lord Snow, Lady Stark, you’re needed in the courtyard immediately,” Brienne calls through the door.

Jon looks as though he’s going to kiss Sansa anyway, but she steps away before he can.

“We best hurry,” she says, and Robb thinks he spots a blush on her cheeks.

Robb goes to follow them down the courtyard, then finds he doesn’t particularly want to see yet another emotional goodbye. Not one to force himself into unnecessary situations now he’s dead, he decides that he’ll go sit with his mother and father in the godswood.

None of them speak as they sit and stare at the Heart tree. They hear the screech of a dragon as it takes off, presumably with Daenerys riding it’s back. The clamour of men moving out reaches them, and they stay sitting until long after the noise disappears over the horizon and Winterfell settles into silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jon?” Sansa whispers frantically to Brienne as she hugs her guard. “What of Jon?”
> 
> Brienne smiles, a small thing, but still there. “Alive.”
> 
> Relief puts color high into Sansa’s cheeks.
> 
> “So is Daenerys,” Brienne tells her, leaning in close. “And the two dragons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst, you're all welcome

The war is tougher to passively sit through than Robb had imagined it would be. Occasionally Robb watches Jon fighting up North, but mostly he focuses on Sansa. The Great War is tough on everyone, and it isn’t selective.

Food is short and warmth is hard to come by, and a terrible mood settled over everyone the day the sun didn’t rise. Sansa worries about the upcoming shortage of wax for candles, but has already put in place a strict rationing system for food and drink. Fire burns around Winterfell trying to keep it warm, and the one thing they will never run out of is water to run through the walls; the snow falls at a pace they can hardly clear fast enough. Still, there are hardly enough men left to fell the amount of trees needed to keep the fire’s blazing. Pots of tar are filled and waiting on the castle walls, ready to be lit and poured over at a moments notice, and there are watchers posted at every corner always on the look out for White Walkers.

Robb knows that Sansa hopes that if the Walkers get so far south, that Jon will ride in to warn them; Robb also knows that Sansa knows that the only reason Jon would let them get so far would be if he were dead.

It’s the toughest thing to suffer through yet, watching his family, his people, be in this state, and know there is absolutely nothing he can do to help. It’s absolutely maddening, and he now has nothing to divert his attention to, either, because his main distraction is separated by war and half a thousand miles.

Still, Robb watches his family closely and tries not to wish he could alleviate their pain because that way only madness lies.

Winterfell takes in a lot of refugees. A lot. But not as much as they’d planned for; too many had obviously died either from the Walkers, or the harsh winter.

It all ends much more dramatically than Robb had anticipated; but he’s a ghost, and he always thought there’d be nothing after you died, so it probably shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. There’s the roar of a dragon that shakes the ground, and a flash of light breaks the clouds apart; over the horizon the sun breaks through the mountains for the first time in ten moons.

_Is Jon alive?_

The question is daunting. Would Robb feel it if he died?

Would Jon come to Winterfell? Would he know how? Would he be stuck wandering around a field forever, or would he get to go to the next place? Not that Robb knows what makes one special enough for them to move on from whatever this middle limbo is, or if there even is anything after this.

So, Robb waits. He waits, and waits, and Sansa and Arya and Bran wait.

Four weeks after the sun rose for the first time in ten moons, the first of the army stumbles through the gates. Brienne and Jaime are leading them, Brienne leaning on Jaime and cradling her stomach, which has a nasty gash. They’re battered, bruised, and unbelievably exhausted, but Brienne’s stomach wound is the worst of it.

The men, though, are in a generally terrible condition. They’ve not slept in days, weeks. There are limbs missing, there’s a terrible lung infection that has settled in many of them, and hardly any of them even seem aware that they’re back safely in Winterfell.

It’s an awful, awful sight to see, but it must be worse to be living through it.

Still, Sansa handles it with aplomb, like she does everything. Refugees are moved into even closer quarters, and those who can be, are sent home with some supplies. The soldiers need somewhere to bathe, to sleep, to recover.

“Jon?” Sansa whispers frantically to Brienne as she hugs her guard. “What of Jon?”

Brienne smiles, a small thing, but still there. “Alive.”

Relief puts color high into Sansa’s cheeks.

“So is Daenerys,” Brienne tells her, leaning in close. “And the two dragons.”

Well, _fuck._

Sansa purses her lips. “I’m glad you’re alive, Brienne. And you, Ser Jaime. I’ll get you some private quarters.”

Jaime grins and Brienne coughs awkwardly. “Uh, together?”

Sansa cocks her head, her eyes widening slightly. Robb recognizes that look, that fake innocence thing she pulls off so well. “That wasn’t what I meant,” she says. “But if that’s what you would prefer . . .?”

Jaime laughs, loudly, like he knows exactly what Sansa just did. Brienne looks at him like she hasn’t heard a noise that like from him before. Perhaps she hasn’t.

“No, separate is fine,” Brienne murmurs, obviously embarrassed.

Hm. Maybe Robb will invest in Jaime and Brienne next. Looks like they need the help.

 

Daenerys arrives next. Soldier’s have been streaming in for days, but Sansa hasn’t welcomed any more Lords or friends back yet.

Daenerys sets her dragon down outside Winterfell, then makes her way in with the men. Robb notices how no one looks at her, how everyone shies away.

Sansa’s already on edge, her shoulders tense and her mouth pinched. Now that it’s all over, the war is done and Jon is alive, she’s probably pretty angry.

Robb is pretty angry.

Still, Sansa sweeps into a curtsy, not as low as it should be, but low enough that Daenerys would look like a fool making a scene.

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, “the North truly appreciates your valiant efforts at the front. Forgive me, but reports have been sparse and vague; I know only that we have been victorious. Would you perhaps be willing to share more details?”

Daenerys clenches her jaw, her eyes blazing.

“No,” she says, lowly, dangerously. Then, she walks right around Sansa and goes through the doors to the Hall, where the injured congregate.

Daenerys is angry, Robb thinks. Why? What happened up there?

With Daenerys’ return, Winterfell becomes uneasy. Daenerys avoids Sansa, and keeps conversation short when they must interact, and everyone picks up on the tension between them. Sansa is trying her hardest to assure everyone that nothing is wrong, but even she can’t work the magic needed when Daenerys is around and being so obviously hateful.

Daenerys must know, Robb decides. Must know that Jon tricked her, that he doesn’t love her, that he loves someone else. Loves Sansa.

It’s kind of terrifying, actually. Robb had always dismissed Daenerys because he’d always thought she was not good enough to be the Queen of Westeros, and he’d never _really_ considered the possibility that she would be Queen while there were better options. He’d kind of figured she’d die in battle. A nice, honorable death, but still a death she deserved.

But she hadn’t. She’s alive, she’s pissed, and she still has two dragons that she could use at a whim.

She may not deserve it, but Robb is forced to consider now that Daenerys could become the next Queen.

Jon should declare his lineage, Robb decides. He should declare it and claim his rightful place as heir – but Daenerys isn’t going to go quietly. Hell, she’d prefer to use her dragons on him and kill her only relative than let him be King instead of her.

Ned comes and joins him sitting in front of the Heart tree. Ned puts a hand on Robb’s shoulder, squeezing it in comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” Ned asks, his hand remaining in place.

Robb sighs, his eyes locked gloomily on the weeping eyes of the weirwood. “Jon and Sansa.”

Ned huffs.

“Jon’s not even back yet,” Ned says, “and already you’re planning your next interference?”

Robb bites his lip in frustration. “No,” he replies. “I’m worried about what Daenerys is going to do, and wondering how they should handle it.”

“Oh.”

They fall into silence, though slightly uneasy. Robb likes to think he knows his father well enough to know whether or not the same thoughts have been haunting Ned, but Robb doesn’t.

They’ve all changed with death.

“What do you think they should do, father?”

Ned sighs, then purses his lips. Slowly, he says, “I remember thinking that nothing could be as bad as Aerys. I remember thinking, ‘Robert will do the Kingdom better than Aerys ever did. Ever could.’” Ned sighs again. “And it was true. Robert was a terrible King, but in comparison to Aerys, he was gods sent. Isn’t that awful? That we settled for something bad, to stave off something worse.”

Ned goes quiet, looking to the Heart tree. “Daenerys is bad. But Cersei is worse. If Daenerys doesn’t kill the innocent people, then they should just let her have the damned crown.”

Robb frowns. “And the Tarly’s? How do you explain that?”

Ned remains stoic. “It was unnecessary,” he admits, “but it was still battle.”

“Hardly honorable,” Robb bites. “And it’s hardly honorable for Jon and Sansa to do nothing, when they still could do something about it. Since when do you not do the honorable thing?”

“Since I watched half my family die because of it,” Ned snaps. “If it saves their lives then - . . . then they should do nothing.”

Robb bites his tongue. _And so to save two lives, you’d condemn the Kingdom?_

No, Robb doesn’t see it like that. Can’t see it like that. He doubts Jon or Sansa see it like that, either.

 

When Jon does arrive back, a sennight after Daenerys, it’s with significantly less fanfare. It’s not even announced, in fact, because he’s blended in with his men and the guards at the gate mistake the group as just more soldiers.

Sam is directing men on where to go, as he always is, and he almost bursts with joy once he realizes who is amongst the new group.

“Jon!”

“Shush!” Jon claps a hand over the mouth of his friend, and Robb hums in curiosity.

He edges closer, of course, because this looks like it’s going to be good.

“Don’t alert anyone to my presence,” Jon warns. “I need to speak with Sansa immediately, before Daenerys realizes I’m back. The men know not to speak of me. Where is Sansa?”

Sam nods vigorously. “She’ll be in the infirmary, probably. Maybe. Or maybe in the Hall with the Lords. Or maybe in her chambers?”

Jon raises a brow impatiently.

“She moves around!” Sam says defensively. “Look, we’ll go to her chambers, and if she’s not there, I’ll look around for her and send her to you. If you want to keep your return a secret, you shouldn’t be seen by many.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees. “These should be the last of the men. Direct them where need be, and then we’ll head on our way.”

“Wait, the last? Today, you mean?”

Jon shakes his head grimly. “No. No, in total.”

“But, Jon -!” Sam exclaims, his face going pale. “I’ve counted barely twenty thousand men!”

“I know.” Jon sighs. “Let’s just . . . get to Sansa’s chambers.”

Robb almost bursts with anticipation as he follows Jon and Sam to Sansa’s door. Robb knows Sansa’s there, he’d been with her not ten minutes ago, before deciding to go for a quick stroll.

“Jon’s back!” Robb crows to anyone who walks by, dead or alive. “Jon’s back!”

By the time they reach the chambers, word must have spread through the dead community, because Ned is waiting at Sansa’s door, arms crossed and a disapproving frown on his face.

“No, don’t,” Robb warns. “I’m going in.”

“Your mother sent me to tell that it’s impolite to spy on people like this.”

Robb groans as Jon knocks on the door. “Okay, well, firstly, a little late for that. Secondly, what else am I supposed to do? Also, this is going to be so good! I’ll stop after. Maybe. Probably not.”

Ned’s frown softens. “I’m a little curious myself,” he admits.

“Great!” Robb says as he hears footsteps on the other side of the door. “It’ll be our little secret. Now, hush!”

The command falls from his lips just in time. Sansa swings open the door, then Jon has pulled her into a tight embrace and they’re crying – and. Well. It’s emotional. Just not the kind of emotional Robb is here to see. Sam slips away discreetly; Jon doesn’t even notice.

“When did you get back?” Sansa finally asks. “I didn’t hear –“

“No, no,” Jon murmurs, “no one knows I’ve returned. I needed to speak with you.”

“About Daenerys?” Sansa mutters. “She’s been here one week and she’s already wreaking havoc. What does she know?”

Jon bites his lips and lets out a huff. Robb can’t help but agree with the sentiment. “She thinks I don’t love her anymore. Thinks we’re all out to take her crown.”

Sansa frowns. “Well, she’s not wrong,” she mutters.

“Yes, but - . . .” Jon pulls away from Sansa and runs a hand through his hair.

Robb’s interested to hear what Jon will say; because Sansa’s right, Daenerys _isn’t_ wrong.

“But she thinks it’s because we want the damn thing,” Jon says finally. “Not because we’re trying to protect our people from _her_.”

Robb can see why Daenerys can’t tell the difference. But Robb does. Jon does. Sansa does.

Sansa goes to her desk, looks down at all her notes. Robb has no idea what she see’s there, but it makes her brow furrow.

“Well, we can’t change her mind,” Sansa says eventually. “And it would be a waste of time. We just need to plan accordingly.”

“So you do have a plan?” Jon asks hopefully.

Sansa hesitates. “I’d kind of hoped she’d die in battle,” she admits.

Yeah. Robb had hoped that, too.

“But I have enough of a plan. We just need to give her something she wants.”

“What does she want more than the throne?” Jon asks, bewildered.

A smile creeps up on Sansa’s face. “Nothing. And I happen to know a way into the Red Keep.”

Jon pauses. Then cautiously, he says, “Sansa . . . please, be careful. She’s dangerous.”

“They both are,” Sansa says. “Trust me, I know. But we just need to curry favour with Daenerys – well, I’m beyond that with her, but I’m sure you can win her back. Then, we send her south with a signed promise that the North is independent and she gets her way into the Keep.”

Jon doesn’t respond for a while. It’s not much of a plan, really, and, gods, there are a lot of things that could go wrong, but Sansa is the only one that need know details. She can organize what she needs without telling anyone anything.

“And what of us?” Jon asks in a soft voice. “Does your plan include me going south with her?”

Robb grins wildly, turning to Ned to wiggle his brows. His father ignores him.

“If I had my way you know I’d never let you leave the walls of Winterfell again,” Sansa dismisses. Then, more slowly, more hesitantly, she admits, “But I’m not sure how to avoid it yet.”

“It will make her angry, if I don’t,” Jon agrees.

“Mm,” Sansa hums as she walks over to the window to look out over the courtyard. The sun will be setting soon. “Have I told you yet today how stupid I think your plan was?”

Jon rolls his eyes, though Sansa can’t see. Robb reckons she probably knows anyway. “No, not yet.”

“Well, it was.”

“Aye, well, yet again I’ll say that you were right and I was wrong but it’s done now, isn’t it?”

Sansa doesn’t reply to him, though it seems to be less because she isn’t deigning him with a reply, and more because something has distracted her down in the courtyard.

She scowls down at whatever’s happening, while Ned fills Robb in on what she might be looking at. “Arya was down there about to wreak havoc when I left to find you.”

Robb groans. “Couldn’t she have waited? This is important,” he pouts.

Slowly, Jon approaches Sansa from behind, the light from the window illuminating Sansa in the most beautiful glow.

“Wrong move, Snow,” Robb murmurs, leaning forward intently. “Don’t sneak up on her.”

Jon can’t hear him of course, and so ignores him entirely. But Sansa doesn’t act like Robb would have predicted – a sharp inhale and flinching away from his touch – but instead leans heavily into Jon as his hands fall around her waist and glide over her stomach, completely ignoring what distracted her before.

It’s like he can see the tension leech entirely from Sansa’s body, and Robb smirks, then nudges his father with his elbow. “Kid has more moves than I would have thought.”

Ned looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Don’t you think we should perhaps remove ourselves, now?”

Robb’s head falls back in displeasure, an “ _ugh”_ falling from his mouth. “Father, I’ve been pushing them towards this for _years._ With the time it took, I am not missing seeing the fruits of my effort come to bear because it’s strange.”

Ned’s face screws up in disgust. “But it _is_ strange.”

Robb chuckles and looks to his father. “Yes, it is. But I’m going to stay, I want to know what they say; you can go if you please.”

Ned doesn’t move. Robb turns his attention back to Jon and Sansa.

Sansa turns her head slightly and rests her chin on her shoulder, her face only a hair width from Jon’s.

Robb holds his breath as they lean in, infinitesimally closer. He wonders who will break the spell and kiss the other; Jon had made the courageous move of approaching Sansa, and so Robb kind of hopes it’s Sansa that makes the final move.

His wish is granted when not a second later, Sansa moves forward again, pressing their lips together lightly.

A wide grin breaks out on Robb’s face. _Finally._

“Don’t celebrate so soon,” Ned warns, putting a hand on his son’s arm. Robb frowns as his father, then looks back to the couple. Indeed, Ned is correct, as they’re pulling away from each other.

The silence is broken by a breathy sigh from Jon, a sweet “ _Sansa”_ spilling from his mouth, and then their lips are pressed together again in a harder but still gentle kiss.

The angle of Jon’s head turns down, slightly, and he turns Sansa in his arms, and then suddenly the kiss is much deeper.

“Yes!” Robb shouts, pumping both hands in the air. In his excitement, he knocks the table beside him; a vase tumbles from the top and smashes against the ground.

Both he and Ned freeze as Jon and Sansa whip apart to see what’s made the noise.

Sansa frowns at the broken pottery. “That’s . . . odd.”

She steps towards the mess, probably to clean it up, but in a swift movement, Jon grabs her wrist and pulls her back to him, his hands cupping her neck and bringing her back into a kiss with him.

In another moment, Jon has Sansa pressed against the wall, one of his hands holding hers above her head and the other hand angling her body so her hips are pressed against his.

“Yuck,” Robb says, pulling a disgusted face. “Why would you ever have wanted to stay for this, father? Let’s go, quickly, before they start removing clothes.”

“Removing . . . clothes?” Ned stumbles.

“How else were they going to fill Winterfell’s halls with little Starklings?” Robb teases, turning to walk back through the wall into the corridor.

“Adoption?” Ned suggests hopefully, following his son out of the Lord’s chambers.

Robb rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, “lets go interfere with _Arya’s_ love life now. She and that Baratheon boy have a bit of chemistry, don’t you think?”

 

It isn’t that easy, as nothing ever is when it comes to these two, Robb has learned.

Daenerys calls a meeting only two days later. Robb has seen Sansa scheming around, talking secretly with Jaime Lannister, buttering up Tyrion Lannister, even organizing warm meals and beds for Daenerys’ army.

Tyrion, Varys, Missandei and Jorah Mormont are already seated when Jon and Sansa arrive at the meeting; his siblings have also brought along Brienne, Jaime and Davos. Though everyone knows discussions for the future are needed, they also expected maybe several more days to get Winterfell back in order.

“I don’t want to get bogged down in the intricacies of politics,” Daenerys starts immediately. “In my view, there are two main problems, because there are two things that I want that I’ve come to realize are going to be more difficult to obtain than I think need be.”

Robb’s eye twitches, and Ned crosses his arms. Catelyn huffs beside him.

“As if this world gives you everything you want,” Catelyn mutters.

Those around the table seem to agree, because they shift in their chairs and try to glare inconspicuously.

“I think a compromise is in order,” Daenerys says, after several seconds of letting everyone sit in silence.

“Queen Daenerys, perhaps we should discuss –“ Tyrion goes to object, but Daenerys holds a hand out, silencing him, and does not take her eyes from where Jon and Sansa are sitting.

Robb cocks his head at the scene before him. It’s very odd, in his opinion. Obviously Daenerys hasn’t consulted her advisers on whatever bullshit is about to spout from her mouth, and Robb can’t help but feel, yet again, that it makes her too unstable a ruler. No person is above advice, and no person can always make the right decision, in Robb’s mind, and anyone who thinks otherwise should not hold the fate of millions of people in the palm of their hand.

“I will either let Jon and Sansa marry and become Warden and Wardeness of a North still part of my Seven Kingdoms, or I will grant the North it’s independence of my crown.”

Robb can’t help but let a startled shout tumble from his lips.

“Disgusting,” Catelyn hisses.

Ned spits on the floor at Daenerys’ feet, then mutters out a “fucking Targaryens,” before crossing his arms.

From the table though, there is silence.

Then, Sansa stands from the table, her hands behind her back; Robb can see they’re clenched tightly. He thinks she’ll probably break the skin of her palms soon.

“Your Grace, let us stop playing these silly little games,” Sansa says, an eerie calm on her face and in her tone, even though Robb knows she’s livid.

Daenerys glares at her.

“What do you want in exchange for secession?” Sansa demands.

 _Good_ , Robb thinks. _Call her out in front of everyone._

“My Lady, have I done something to give you the impression that I wanted something?”

Sansa narrows her eyes. “Yes. But, honestly, I do already know what is it. Maybe you should enlighten the rest of the council on what you want _so much_ that you’re willing to part with one of your kingdoms? Or should I say, _who_ you want?”

Daenerys clenches her jaw.

Robb can’t help but let out a delighted laugh. It’s perfect, as all Sansa’s ploys are. No matter how Daenerys frames it now, it’s always going to sound ridiculous because now everyone thinks Daenerys is just being petty.

“Fine,” Daenerys says, standing too. “I want Jon to come south with me and live by my side as my consort.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion starts, jumping to his feet. “Perhaps there’s a diff –“

“No, I’ve made my decision,” Daenerys interjects.

Jon glares at the table in front of him. “You can’t possibly be serious, Daenerys.”

“I expect your decision by the morning,” Daenerys adds, smiling around the table. “I do need to get South as soon as possible, I’m sure you understand.”

Davos interjects calmly, obviously trying to sound reasonable in a completely unreasonable situation. “Your Grace, perhaps you would give us some more time to consider your thoughtful proposition?”

“Fine,” Daenerys acquiesces. “An extra day. I want to be on my way South by the end of the week.”

Sansa’s lips part in distress, and Robb looks away from Daenerys and her council as they exit for fear of doing something completely stupid.

The door closes, and Robb opens his eyes to Jaime Lannister saying, “Well, she’s unpleasant, isn’t she?”

No one replies, so Lannister keeps speaking. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to stay in the Northern Kingdom, then. I’m not swearing fealty to her.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Brienne snaps. “They don’t even know what they’re going to choose. You could still be under her rule yet.”

Jaime rolls his eyes and mutters, “As if they don’t already know.”

Robb agrees. He knows what they’ll decide.

“I’ll do it,” Jon declares. “Of course I’ll do it. But Sansa, I –“

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

“We’ll need to establish trade agreements before she leaves,” Davos says carefully. “If we’re to secede, it’s probably best a, uh, fruitful marriage alliance is made. At least this way, we know someone with Northern interests will be down there.”

The two of them must go out of their minds, Robb thinks, sitting in another meeting for several more hours when there is probably nothing they want more than to just speak with each other in private.

Eventually, though, this meeting finishes, as they all do.

There’s not much they have to rely on Daenerys for, in the end. As long as she doesn’t cut off any trading routes, the North really doesn’t need her. Still, they try to put as positive a spin on Jon leaving as they can.

Robb thinks that’s probably a good idea for now, but it won’t last long. Something – some _one_ – will give eventually.

They decide, as well, that they’ll mention as little as possible to as little people as possible about Jon having to go South. Everyone will know, of course, but they’ll again focus on the good things: their independence, a Stark monarch.

It’s awful, but it’s the best situation they’ve been in for months.

Ned and Catelyn wandered away about when the group starting discussing positive marketing, but Robb is still itching to see what Jon and Sansa say in private.

When Jon and Sansa are left alone, Sansa takes Jon’s hand and says, “Come. Let’s go to the godswood.”

Robb follows them.

His mother and father are there already.

Jon brings Sansa into a kiss, and Robb looks away, giving them some privacy.

“He’s definitely going,” Robb informs his parents.

Catelyn sighs. “I wish the world weren’t this cruel.”

Robb turns back to the couple. They’re embracing tightly, and Sansa is crying, and Jon might even be as well.

“Why is it always us?” Sansa asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks with both hands and holding them to her face.

Instead of giving some vaguely inspirational speech about nobility and loyalty and the strength of House Stark, Jon says, “I wish it weren’t.”

He covers her hands with his own, then steps close to her again and presses his lips to her temple.

“We could run away,” he murmurs against her skin. Robb strains to hear them. “Go over to Essos, raise a dozen children in the sunlight and away from politics and responsibility.”

Sansa smiles indulgently and nestles into his side.

“A dozen children?” she asks. “Are you raising an army, Jon Snow?”

He kisses her temple again and smiles as well. “Seems like the appropriate amount to do all the farming for us.”

Sansa laughs, and then looks startled that she’d done it, like she’d forgotten she knew how. Jon looks completely enamored by the sound, which Robb understands. He hasn’t heard Sansa laugh in too long.

They kiss again, but when they pull apart, Sansa sighs.

“Daenerys won’t want to wait,” she says. “She’ll have you both ride out as soon as she can.”

Jon sighs, too, his face pulling down in to its usual frown. “Aye, she will. She’ll likely want to ride out in the morning.”

Sansa looks up to the castle. “And she’s likely waiting in your chambers to tell you.”

A sly smirk makes his lips quirk up. “And she’ll be waiting all night, won’t she, my love?”

Sansa rolls eyes good-naturedly. She straightens the lapels of his coat as she says, “She will if you have anything to say about it.”

Their banter is such an obvious attempt to lighten the mood that it has no choice but to become somber again.

“You will come visit, won’t you?” Sansa says.

“As often as I can,” he promises. “What will you do?”

Sansa pulls away from him, as if the subject is not something she wants to taint their relationship with.

“Rule as best I can.”

It’s obviously not what he meant. Jon frowns at her, and Sansa sigh again.

“I don’t know,” she finally admits. “I’ll avoid any suitors for as long as possible, but I can’t put off marriage forever.”

Gods, Robb really wishes that he could pretend that wasn’t the case, that he hadn’t heard her say that in that tone. Jon looks like he feels the same way, but there’s a resignation in his eyes that makes Robb understand that Jon had asked purposefully; that he’ll lie awake every night and torture himself over the fate to which Sansa is subjected.

Sansa shivers, her body obviously cooling away from Jon’s warmth. Robb can’t feel the temperature, but he knows winter is barely over. This late at night, it must be freezing.

“Let’s go back inside,” Sansa says, making her way back to the castle.

“Wait, Sansa,” Jon says desperately, taking her hand to stop her from leaving.

She looks about to complain, but Jon takes her face in his hands and looks into her eyes.

He stays that way for a few moments, than says, “I love you,” and kisses her. He pulls back, says, “Gods, I am _so_ in love with you,” and kisses her again.

Beside Robb, Catelyn sighs, like her heart is breaking, and turns and walks away. His father claps him on the shoulder, Robb jerking with the force of it, but he can’t take his eyes from the tragedy of the couple in front of him.

Ned walks away as well, and soon after, Jon and Sansa leave and go back inside.

Robb stares after them for a long time, thinking about what he’s done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day the wedding invitation comes, Sansa takes a horse from the stables and doesn’t come back for hours, well after the sun has set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more angst (you're still welcome), then some DRAMA, and then our happy ending yay! 
> 
> i also just want to give a shout out to everyone who has commented/left a kudos. i'm in the process of writing my first novel at the moment, and this is the first time i've posted fic since i started doing that, so you genuinely have no idea how much encouragement i've gotten from the lovely things you've said about my writing. 
> 
> anyway, enjoy the drama!

Robb makes sure to slam some doors and knock around some vases in Daenerys’ room that night, and if she trips over a rock and stumbles into a wall on her way to break her fast the next morning, well, Robb sure had a laugh, but he absolutely, most definitely had _basically_ nothing to do with it.

It comes back to bite him in the ass, though, because Daenerys mutters about the castle being cursed the entire way to the hall, and when she arrives she sniffs haughtily at Sansa and then demands Jon leave with her immediately.

If something bumps in to the back of Daenerys’ chair making it thud against the table and knock some mugs over, Robb had nothing to do with that, either.

Jon does leave with Daenerys that very morning, though. His farewell to Arya is emotional, and Jon is affectionate with Bran, but fairly stoic with Sansa. Robb understands. He wouldn’t be able to stand saying goodbye in front of everyone, either.

Still, Jon turns back to look for her as he rides out of the gate; Sansa has already gone back inside.

Robb doesn’t spend much time around the living after Jon leaves. The castle is somber after Jon’s departure, though it doesn’t last long. Very soon after, everyone is rejoicing over their recent victory over the White Walkers and their newfound independence. Sansa runs their kingdom smoothly, as everyone knew she would, but, gods, Robb knows she’s sad.

She often spends her nights lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Robb sometimes stays in the room with her, but most of his time is spent in the godswood. He watches Jon, sometimes, but while Sansa has retreated in to herself, Jon takes his anger out quite vehemently.

He’s often fighting with Daenerys, and if he isn’t, he’s shirking his responsibilities and is out shredding training dummies to pieces.

The day the wedding invitation comes, Sansa takes a horse from the stables and doesn’t come back for hours, well after the sun has set.

Arya waits by the gate with a horse of her own after four hours of Sansa being gone. Robb wonders at what point Arya would ride out after Sansa, obviously wanting to giver her sister space, but very worried about her.

When Sansa does finally return, Arya gives her a fierce hug that makes Robb’s heart clench.

“I was really worried about you,” Arya says, then angrily, “Don’t do that again!”

Sansa smiles down at her sister, sadness settled around her eyes. “You can come next time.”

“Next time?” Arya asks, obviously trying to regain her footing. “What, the Queen of the North is going to take up riding?”

Sansa pulls her gloves from her fingers as a stable boy leads her horse away. “I forgot how good it feels to be outside the walls,” Sansa admits.

“Have you eaten?” Arya demands. “You’ve been gone all day.”

“I stopped at Wintertown on my way back in,” Sansa tells her, rolling her eyes.

Arya hesitates, then softly, she says, “Next time, when I come with you, I’ll teach you how to catch your own meal.”

Sansa smiles. “Well, now, that might be a bit _too_ much for me to handle.”

Arya loops her arm through Sansa’s, and starts to pull her in the direction of the godswood. They both stay silent, though Sansa looks resigned to what’s about to happen.

“Look,” Arya says, as soon as they’re in the safety of the godswood, “We haven’t spoken about you and Jon because there hasn’t been a need until now.”

Sansa steps away from her sister and paces in front of the Heart tree. “I know,” Sansa mutters. “It was irresponsible of me to run away today. I just - . . . I got so _angry.”_

Arya shakes her head. “No, Sansa,” she says gently. “We all understood. _I_ understand. And even though we all knew it was coming, it can’t have easy to see that invitation today.”

Sansa clenches her jaw but doesn’t speak.

“Sansa,” Arya says firmly. Sansa turns to look at her sister. “He isn’t coming back. He’s going to marry Daenerys, and they will have Targaryen children and rule the southern kingdoms together, and you will stay here and rule the North as a Stark.”

“Don’t,” Sansa warns. “Stop it, stop.”

“You know that it’s true.”

“Of course I know it’s true!” Sansa snaps. “And you needn’t remind me of it!”

Whatever point Arya is making, Robb’s pretty sure there’s probably a more sensitive way of going about making it.

“I’m not saying you need to move on or anything,” Arya says evenly, ignoring Sansa’s outburst. “I know you’ll probably love him for the rest of your life. But you need to pull yourself together.”

Sansa steps away from Arya, taken aback. “Don’t -.”

“ _Sansa_ ,” Arya says in exasperation. “You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping, it isn’t healthy!”

“I’m still performing my duties,” Sansa says. Robb knows her anger isn’t directed at Arya, not really. “Performing them quite admirably, in fact.”

Arya scrunches her nose in frustration. “Sansa!” she moans with annoyance. “It isn’t about that! You are more than Queen in the North. You are more than a Stark, you are more than my sister, you are _more_ than Jon. You are a person, a beautiful, courageous, empowered person, and, yes, you fell in love with someone who had to leave, but that is not everything you are. You cannot let it become you, let it overcome you, you have to be more. Not because people are counting on you, but because you _deserve_ more, Sansa.”

They both go quiet.

Quite an empowering speech, in Robb’s opinion. There’s a lot of truth in it. Robb hasn’t been around that much and even he knows Sansa hasn’t been doing well.

Sansa blinks at Arya, then slowly nods her head.

“Yes,” she says eventually. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“I should go to the wedding.”

“ _Sansa_!”

Sansa smiles slightly. “I’m only joking. I know what you’re saying. I understand. You’re right.”

Arya doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she sits down anyway, and pats the space on the log next to her. Sansa comes and sits by her sister, and they both stare into the weeping face of the Heart tree, a contemplative silence falling around them.

“What do you think happens when you die?” Sansa asks quietly. “Jon said it was just _nothing_ but . . . do you think maybe there’s more?”

Arya stays quiet for a very long time. Robb isn’t entirely sure she’s going to answer, but Sansa doesn’t seem too worried about it. She just seems relieved to have voiced the question.

“Why do you ask?” Arya finally replies slowly. “Any threat to you is long gone.”

Sansa is shaking her head before Arya has even finished speaking.

“No, not me,” Sansa says, then huffs bitterly. “I’m not worried about what will happen to me when I die. Anything must be better than this life.”

 _No, Sansa._ Robb’s heart breaks. Yes, gods yes, he agrees, but if he’s realized anything since all this started, it’s that his family deserve to live a full and happy life and _then_ they can come join him. There are too many things they’d be forced to miss out on, that _he’s_ missed out on, if they came here.

“What, then?” Arya asks, carefully, like one wrong word will send Sansa in to some kind of spiral.

Sansa rephrases her question. “Do you think . . . do you think our family is happy? Mother and father, Robb and Rickon? Do you think the afterlife has offered them some peace?”

Robb’s head falls back as tears pool in his eyes. As hard as death is for him, it’s worse for them. He’s here. He’s in his home, with his family, and he can see or talk to anyone at any time.

But they’re just stuck there, missing those they’ve lost and wishing for something easier.

“Yes,” Arya says firmly, with so much conviction that Robb wonders for a second if she knows something. “Yes, they must. What would be the point of all this if not for some peace and happiness afterwards?”

Robb wouldn’t exactly call this ‘peace and happiness’, but it’s better than what they’re going through now.

Sansa doesn’t seem entirely convinced, though would obviously like to believe Arya.

“Yes,” she says softly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Robb steps towards his sisters, then goes and sits on the other side of Sansa. They’ve both gone quiet, contemplative, and in the silence Robb lays his head on Sansa’s shoulders.

Sansa shivers immediately, but doesn’t shift her body away.

Robb wonders if she can feel him. She is more likely to, here, where the lines between this realm and theirs are slightly blurred, where the connection of their blood is nigh on strong enough to break the barrier.

Perhaps I should leave them be, Robb thinks. Perhaps this is painful for them, to feel something they don’t understand, to forever get traces of their lost family.

But Robb is too selfish to leave.

He knows that now.

He has become very selfish in the afterlife.

“You shouldn’t have pushed something that anguishes them so,” Catelyn says sourly from behind him. Rob hadn’t even realized she had been there. “This was never going to have the outcome you desired.”

“Is it so bad that I wished them happy?” He asks bitterly, lifting his head to look at her. “The chance was worth the risk.”

Catelyn shakes her head at him, like she’s disappointed in him as a man. “The chance was worth the risk _for you_.”

Catelyn strikes an eerie picture out here, her skin as white as the snow, the huge gash on her neck ugly and weeping. When she holds out her arm to him, Robb stands from beside his sister and takes his mother’s arm.

Robb doesn’t turn around as they walk back in to Winterfell.

 

The night before the wedding, the halls of Winterfell are somber. Sansa had decided to go south to attend, to the surprise of most.

Arya and Bran don’t help lift the mood at all, and Robb quickly finds himself wishing he knew what was happening.

Sansa would have been in the capital for a couple days, now. Robb wonders if she’s seen Jon, or what she’s been doing. Probably spending as little time in the Red Keep as possible. Word had reached Winterfell of Daenerys’ triumph over Cersei, of a complete renovation of the capital city, but it can’t be so different that Sansa isn’t faced with awful memories at every turn.

Gods, but she must be torturing herself over the wedding.

Robb turns to Jon instead, knowing his torment over it will be heartbreaking in a different way.

Robb almost hoped he’d find Jon with Sansa, but it was too much to wish for. Instead, Jon is sat at a large table having dinner, Daenerys on the other end.

“Hm,” Daenerys hums contently. “Everyone replied yes to the invitations. I must be doing something right, if no one is sending emissaries.”

Jon grumbles something from the opposite end of the table, stabbing his meat forcefully and sticking it in his mouth.

“What was that?” Daenerys’ eyes flick up to him, piercing even though Jon and Daenerys are sitting nearly three meters from each other.

Jon takes a big gulp of wine, then wipes his mouth with his arm. “I _said_ , they’re only coming because they’re afraid you’ll burn them alive if they don’t.”

Daenerys drops her knife and fork and they clatter loudly. Jon raises a brow at her in challenge, taking another large swig of wine.

Daenerys’ mouth twitches in frustration. “Don’t you have any manners? You’re to be crowned Prince Consort tomorrow, don’t be so disgusting.”

Jon shrugs then leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’s it matter?” he asks. “No one else is here.”

“Bad manners start in private,” Daenerys declares. Jon rolls his eyes. “Did they not teach you anything up North?”

Jon stills, his hands clenching. “Don’t talk about my family.”

“I’m your family,” Daenerys says, smiling, then goes back eating. “Of course, I’m not surprised,” she continues. “The only one with any manners is your sister, but she spent a lot of time South, no?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Jon warns, his voice low.

Daenerys ignores him, carrying on cheerfully. She knows exactly how to push him to the edge, after so many moons together, fighting each other. And she’s obviously in a vindictive mood now, though perhaps she has been all night. Robb has only just got here. Who knows what other foul words the two have exchanged, especially with tension already running so high.

“She was under the tutelage of Cersei, wasn’t she?”

“I’m _warning_ you,” Jon says, fury burning in his eyes. “Do _not_ go any further.”

“Considering they spent so much time together, I’m really not surprised that Sansa developed such perversions. Falling in love with her own brother? The scandal of it all.”

Jon stands up in such haste that his chair falls over. Daenerys leans back in her chair, satisfied, a glass of wine in her hand.

Jon breathes heavily, his hands braced on the table. He takes a second to compose himself, then spits, “You forget your own perversions, _aunt?_ ”

She shrugs. “We didn’t know we were related when we fell in love.”

“We are _not_ in love.”

“She still thought herself your half sister when she fell in love in with you. Cersei really taught her some bad habits, didn’t she? I’ll be surprised if the North doesn’t come begging to be let back into the Seven Kingdoms by the end of the year.”

“ENOUGH!” Jon shouts, sweeping his hands across the table, his plates and glass smashing on the ground. Robb jumps at the suddenness of it, and misses if Daenerys did too. “You think you can judge other rulers when you’re such a fucking terrible Queen yourself?!”

Daenerys growls indignantly. “I am not –“

“Oh, you think you’re not? You are the absolute worst thing that could have happened to Westeros!” Jon roars. “You are selfish and single-minded! You claim to be different from your predecessors while still riding on your birthright from them. You used your name to get this far, Daenerys. There is _nothing_ special about you.”

“But I –“

Jon slams his hands on the table, rattling everything atop it. “No _, I’m not finished!_ You don’t think about what’s best for people. You certainly didn’t when you made the decision to marry me – you gave Sansa and I a choice that wasn’t a choice at all – and you want to know the _difference_ between you and Sansa? _She_ chose the option that was best for her people. She chose not to marry for love, so that _her people_ could have independence. You are a self-titled Queen, and you will _never_ be Queen of the people. You will _never_ be half as good at being Queen as her.”

Robb thinks that Jon has made a lot of good points. He wonders how Daenerys will respond.

But Jon doesn’t even give her a second to reply. He’s obviously been bottling this up for a while now.

“You don’t uphold the laws of justice, and you don’t even _want_ to protect your supposed people! Did you know I _lied_ to get you to come and fight the Great War? I know you think that I fell out of love with you when we were at Winterfell before the War, but guess what? I never fucking loved you. I lied so that you’d come North and fight.”

He chuckles mirthlessly, his fists clenched. Daenerys’ eyes are wide at the other end of the table. She obviously hadn’t expected such a furious response from him.

Robb has seen them fight quite a bit, and quite vehemently. He’s seen Daenerys burn whole fields in her anger, he’s seen Jon smash vases and flip tables, he even once saw them lay hands on each other.

But this. This is something else entirely.

“You remember, that day in the dragon pit?” Jon asks, his tone a deceiving calm. “I remember being there and saying, ‘Well, we’re fucked’, and looking at you, hoping I was wrong about you. _Hoping_ that you were just going to say, ‘Actually, Cersei doesn’t matter’. Because that’s how simple it was. All I needed was for you to say, ‘We don’t need an alliance with her’, and I could have believed in you, Daenerys. You know what you said instead? ‘I can’t pretend she won’t take back half the kingdom when I turn North’. Do you even understand how fucking stupid that is? You’d _seen_ them, Daenerys. You’d seen what we were up against, and still all you cared about was the fucking throne. I will never respect you as Queen, because I know what being a good ruler truly looks like.”

Daenerys stays quiet for a long time. Robb wonders why Jon doesn’t just leave the room. He’s obviously said what he needed to say. Daenerys doesn’t seem to be going to respond.

“If you detest me _so_ much,” Daenerys finally says, her voice icy, “then why are you here?”

Jon scoffs. “I think I made it pretty fuckin’ clear!”

“You chose this,” Dany reminds him, fury rippling off her in palpable waves.

“I did,” Jon agrees. “But I didn’t choose _you_.”

“Get out.” Daenerys shouts, fury making her shake. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Jon spits on the floor _. “Gladly.”_

Robb follows Jon as he storms out of the room and slams the door behind him. Jon is absolutely furious, knocking down vases and pulling down artwork as he fumes back to his chambers.

He and Daenerys don’t share.

Perhaps Jon will be embarrassed of his behavior in the morning, but, well . . . Robb kind of gets it. He understands this anger, this helplessness, even if he hasn’t ever taken it out quite as obviously as Jon is.

Robb leaves Jon be, and he finds he doesn’t have it in himself to visit Sansa.

He spends the night and most of the next day bitter and wondering if he’ll watch the wedding. When the sun dips below the horizon, Robb seeks out his parents.

“Are you going to watch the wedding?” Robb asks them as he sits down beside his father.

Ned is reading and Catelyn is sitting staring out the window.

Catelyn doesn’t move, but Ned sighs, his book snapping shut as he rubs his forehead.

“Robb,” he sighs in exasperation, “when will this obsession end?”

Robb frowns with indignation. A twinge of stubbornness flares up. “I don’t know, maybe when I die?” he says sarcastically.

Before either he or his father can engage any further, Catelyn says, “It’s nothing we haven’t seen before. No need to bother, I should think.”

“I think I’ll watch,” Robb says, ignoring his mother. “It will be starting soon. I’ll let you know if it gets interesting.”

His parents don’t speak again, so Robb settles back into his chair and closes his eyes. He focuses on the feeling of Jon, thinks about King’s Landing and the wedding and the scene slowly comes to life before his eyes.

Jon is standing at a raised altar, a stoic look on his face. Robb turns and takes in the scene. Sansa is to the left, in the front row beside Brienne, her face expressionless. She and Jon are obviously avoiding each other’s eyes.

Daenerys is making her way down the aisle. The crowd is silent around them.

It’s all rather morbid, in Robb’s opinion. He takes a seat at Sansa’s feet, looking up to Jon as Daenerys joins him. It’s stiff and awkward as Jon takes Daenerys’ hand. They’re obviously both still angry over the words exchanged, perhaps they’ve even fought again today, but it was always going to be this uncomfortable.

Daenerys wants something that will never happen, and Jon will fight tooth and nail before he gives it to her.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the septon declares, obviously trying to bring some levity to the tense situation.

Jon’s free hand clenches by his side, then slowly, he brings his hands up to his neck to unfasten his black and red Targaryen cloak.

It looks as though it physically pains him to wrap it around Daenerys’ shoulders, which, well – look, Robb’s humour is defense mechanism, honestly. If he spent too long focused on how absolutely fucked up this whole situation is, he thinks he would send himself into a spiral of anger that would match Jon and Sansa’s own. He understands what it must be like for them, to be so close to each other during this wedding and have the marriage not to be to each other.

But – it’s a little funny. Jon looks like he’s in so much pain, not heartbreak pain, but like he might throw up all over Daenerys at any second. Robb would very much like to see that.

Jon’s hands fall away from Daenerys, and it takes a few seconds for him to collect himself to retake Daenerys’ hand.

In those seconds, Daenerys’ eyes fall on Sansa.

Robb doesn’t know what she see’s there. He doesn’t understand Daenerys’ mind, and when Robb looks upon Sansa all he can see is determination set in her jaw.

But when Robb turns back to Daenerys, she seems to have had some kind of realization. Her eyes are pulled down in sadness, and her lips are pursed together like she’s trying to stop herself from crying.

“My lords, my ladies,” the septon starts, “we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh -.”

“No, wait.”

Robb sits up straighter as Daenerys pulls her hand from Jon’s. Her eyes find Sansa’s again.

“Your Grace,” the septon says nervously, stepping closer to the couple to speak in private. Robb stands so he can go and hear what they’re saying. “Am I to proceed with -?”

“Just – just wait a second,” she says, obviously confused herself about what’s happening.

“Daenerys,” Jon says lowly, “can we just get on with it?”

Daenerys purses her lips as she looks at him – really looks at him. Jon fidgets with the scrutiny, and even Robb gets a little uncomfortable, standing so close to her intense gaze.

“You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” Daenerys asks him. “But it’s not for me, is it? You really are doing this for the North, for the kingdoms?”

“I haven’t spent this much time south not to do it,” he grumbles, then softer, gently, like he realizes she’s asking a genuine question and not spoiling for a fight, he says, “but no, Dany, it isn’t for you.”

Daenerys smiles a little, sadly, but like she’s just been given a beautiful gift she would never have otherwise received.

“I don’t think we should continue,” she says.

Robb’s completely bewildered, as is Jon. He obviously doesn’t know how to react, so he does what he usually does with Daenerys – get’s angry.

“Daenerys,” he grumbles, glaring at her and grabbing her hand again, “just stop. You’ve caused enough of a scene, lets just continue.”

Daenerys whips her hand from his and rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to tell you that we don’t need to get married,” she hisses. “Perhaps be a little more grateful.”

Jon pauses. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles.

“Oh my gods,” Robb gasps, slapping his hands out against his fathers arm. “Oh my gods! Are you _watching_ this?”

“No,” Ned grumbles, rubbing his arm where Robb had slapped him.

“She’s leaving him at the altar!” Robb shouts, slapping Ned’s arm again.

“Wait – what?”

“They had this massive fight yesterday,” Robb rushes to explain, still focusing on the scene flicking in front of his eyes. “Jon told her she was a terrible Queen, that she could never dream to be as good as Sansa; that he would never respect her as a ruler because he knows what true leadership looks like.”

“Shush,” Ned hushes, slapping Robb back in the same way Robb had done to him. “I can’t hear what she’s saying!”

Robb can’t see Ned beside him in the scene at King’s Landing, but he’s not surprised about it.

“I thought I was doing the right thing because it was what I wanted,” Daenerys says softly. The court is obviously straining to hear. “I even convinced myself it was right politically, morally.”

Robb looks to Sansa in the crowd. Robb wonders if she can hear what the two are whispering about at the altar. Perhaps not, if her large doe eyes are anything to go by.

“But I was wrong,” Daenerys continues. “You were right. If the North wants independence from the crown, after everything you’ve done, then they deserve it. If you want to marry Sansa, that has nothing to do with me. The North has done nothing but fight valiantly for the lives of the realm, and that should be rewarded, not punished.”

“Daenerys,” Jon says lowly, darkly. He grips her hands tightly. “Do not play games with me.”

“This is so dramatic,” Robb whispers.

“Shush!” Ned snaps again.

“What’s going on?” Catelyn’s voice drifts through, begrudgingly curious.

“Daenerys is leaving Jon at the altar,” Ned divulges. “I think she’s also giving the North independence?”

“They had a big fight last night,” Robb adds. “He compared her to Sansa, said she was a shit Queen –“

“Mm, I suppose that _does_ sound interesting,” Catelyn softly. Robb presumes she joins them in their viewing.

“Not this time, Jon Snow,” Daenerys responds to him. “Before you return to Winterfell, we will sit and work out the technicalities, but for now –“

Daenerys takes one hand from Jon’s, then places it on his face. Her expression is wistful, but not malevolent. She brushes her fingers over his cheek, then pushes his head so he’s facing the crowd; facing Sansa.

“Go to your new wife.”

“Ten gold pieces says Jon kisses Sansa in front of the whole court!” Robb shouts. He can’t believe it. Can’t _believe_ it!

Catelyn scoffs. “As if he’d be so public in his affection.”

Ned hums lowly in disagreement. “Robb’s been pushing them together for years, my love. Perhaps we should trust his instincts.”

“Ten gold pieces says he doesn’t,” Catelyn says anyway.

Robb turns his attention back to the scene. Jon’s still standing at the altar staring at Sansa like a fool; though Robb can understand why’d he’d be hesitant to believe Daenerys and turn his back on her.

“ _Go,_ ” Daenerys urges, pushing Jon lightly.

Jon takes a stumbled step down the stairs, his eyes locked on Sansa’s.

“Kiss!” Robb shouts encouragingly. “Kiss, kiss, kiss!”

“Jon,” Sansa mouths. “What -?”

Her confusion must stir him on, because he straightens up, then walks with purpose towards her.

“Sansa,” he says, for only her to hear. Confused murmurs are well and truly rippling through the crowd. “Marry me?”

Sansa blinks at him owlishly. “What – _now?_ ”

A grin curls up over Jon’s lips. “Yes. Now.”

Sansa steps towards him.

“Kiss?” Robb says, though he’s less sure now that there will be a dramatic sweeping kiss in which Jon dips Sansa back and kisses her senseless for everyone to see – though perhaps that was always pretty unrealistic.

“Jon,” Sansa says, and she’s frowning. Not very romantic, in Robb’s opinion. “ _What_ is going on?”

Jon expression softens. “I’ll explain in depth later but – this is okay. This is good. If you want to be with me like I want to be with you then - . . . let’s get married?”

Sansa looks from Jon to Daenerys. Daenerys smiles widely, encouragingly, beckoning Sansa up towards the altar.

Sansa obviously still thinks it’s a trap, but she _wants_ to believe it, Robb knows, because she’s fighting back a smile.

“In front of all these people?” she asks, though a blush is coloring high in her cheeks. “In King’s Landing?”

“We’re to be King and Queen in the North, darling,” Jon says brightly as he pulls Sansa up the stairs. “It would have to be in front of so many people.”

Her eyes widen.

“Of the North?” she asks, her voice small. “Together?”

“Aye. This has all finally been worth it.”

Sansa obviously can’t help but let a laugh tumble from her lips, though she looks surprised to have let herself.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’ll marry you now. But we can have another one? At home?”

“Arya and Bran wouldn’t forgive us otherwise,” Jon says.

“Neither would I,” Ned grumbles.

He takes Sansa’s hand, then pulls her up the stairs and to the altar and in front of the septon who looks extremely confused about what’s happening.

“We’ll be getting married instead,” Jon says to the septon, a smile beaming on his face. Robb can’t remember the last time he saw that expression on his brother.

“Uh.” The septon looks over to Daenerys, who nods and smiles herself. “Alright. Is there someone to give your, uh, new bride away?”

Sansa turns to the only person who accompanied her to King’s Landing. “Brienne?” she calls. “Will you give me away?

Whispers again break out through the hall, as the new nuptials are confirmed.

Brienne stands immediately, a determined smile on her face. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

Robb has never seen a proper Southron wedding. He and Talisa married in an almost hybrid way, picking and choosing the vows of the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods.

Jon, though, would have had to have properly learnt what to say for his marriage to Daenerys, and Sansa’s done this before.

Brienne simply takes Sansa’s hand, then places it back in Jon’s. Still, Robb wonders what his father is thinking. Robb can’t see Ned, but imagines that he must long to be able to give her away to someone who may even deserve her.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the septon says.

“We’ll skip the cloaking, thanks,” Jon says.

“My Lord,” the septon stammers. “This step is imperative –“

“Jon, it’s alright,” Sansa sooths.

Jon fidgets. “I would rather cloak you with a bastard Snow sigil than a Targaryen one.”

Sansa smiles at him, then turns to the septon herself. “We’ll skip this step, thank you.”

The septon seems unsure, but Jon narrows his eyes, so the septon quickly starts with the next section. “My lords, my ladies, -“

“Oh!” Jon exclaims. “No, wait, wait.”

Sansa cocks her head curiously as Jon drops her hand and starts frantically patting his chest. His face lights up, and he digs into an inside breast pocket of his tunic, then pulls out a silver ring.

“I have this instead.” He smiles, proud, then takes back Sansa’s hand and slips on the ring.

“Where did he get my wedding ring?” Catelyn gasps as Sansa looks to Jon like he hung the moon.

“Sansa had it,” Robb explains. “She gave it to him as a token of her favor before he left for the Great War.”

“Alright,” Jon says. “You can keep going.”

The septon is obviously stressed about the whole ordeal, but continues on at Jon’s request.

“My lords, my ladies,” he says again, “we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The couple holds hands as they stand side by side. The septon proceeds to tie a ribbon in a knot around their joined hands. While tying the ribbon the septon says, "Let it be known that Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Queen Sansa of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

The septon unravels the ribbon, then commands, “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Jon and Sansa turn to each other, then simultaneously say, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.”

Still speaking at the same time, Jon says, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," while Sansa speaks, "I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

Robb smiles widely at the look of happiness on his siblings’ faces. “This is _adorable_.”

Finally, Jon announces, “With this kiss, I pledge my love," then sweeps his hands up to cup Sansa’s neck and brings her straight into a very romantic kiss.

It’s not exactly the passionate dipped kiss that Robb was hoping for, but it lasts long enough that the septon clears his throat and Robb says to Catelyn, “I think I won those gold pieces.”

“Please,” Catelyn scoffs, “that kiss is all Sansa.”

There’s applause from the crowd as they pull apart – albeit with a bit too much confusion to be considered genuine. The couple doesn’t take any heed, instead walking down the aisle, hand in hand.

Robb let’s himself be pulled back to Winterfell.

His mother and father follow suit. The three of them sit silently for the rest of the night, basking in the glow of the fire.

 

 

Robb can’t help but bounce excitedly.

“You could at least pretend you’re sad my wife is dying,” Jon says wryly from beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. Jon’s hair is a deep grey, his back stopped, with no obvious death wound.

He’d died in his sleep from old age.

Robb groans good-naturedly. “I haven’t spoken properly to my sister in sixty years!” Robb pouts. “Yes, I know she’s dying, it’s all very sad, but come _on,_ I know you’re excited she’ll join you soon.”

Jon bites his lip and pretends to remain impartial on the matter.

Robb stops moving around and sobers himself, too. He nudges Jon with his elbow. “Look at the legacy she’s leaving behind, that you left behind. You have five beautiful children who will rule over the North and Winterfell with as much grace and grandeur as you both did. You both did something noble with your lives, and now you can finally have peace here.”

It takes two more days for Sansa to succumb to the fever that has been plaguing her for a week.

Sansa’s entry to the afterlife is as unassuming as everyone else’s. One moment she lay dying on the bed, then next her soul is blinking her eyes open to a new life.

Catelyn reaches her first and throws her arms around her daughter in a tight hug.

“Mother?” Sansa asks, incredulous.

When Catelyn pulls away, Sansa reels back in shock at the gory wound on her mother’s neck.

Catelyn doesn’t say anything, just smiles tightly at Sansa, who is then pulled into an embrace with her father. Sansa inspects her father’s own neck wound with thinly veiled horror, so Robb pushes through to hug her tightly and spin her around.

“I’ve so missed you!” he says as he puts her down. “You look a little different to the last time we met.”

He’s just teasing, but her hands fly to her face. “Am I still old?” she asks.

“Afraid so,” he confirms. “You’ll be stuck looking the exact way you did when you died forever. Old isn’t so bad, though, really – you could be stuck with this.”

Robb gestures down to his own lethal wounds, blood seeping, as it will forever. Sansa’s hand hesitantly reaches out to his abdomen. Robb gently steps out of her reach.

“Now, now,” Jon says from behind Robb. “Let’s not overwhelm her.”

“Jon?” Sansa asks, a smile blooming on her face.

They hug tightly, then kiss sweetly, Catelyn and Ned looking away while Robb let’s an, “ick,” fall from his lips.

“You’d think after fifty years you two would have had enough of each other,” Robb mutters.

The couple pull apart, and Sansa eyes him curiously. “What, like you were watching?”

Robb rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Well . . .”

“Don’t listen to a word he says, love,” Jon pipes in. “Robb reckons he’s entirely responsible for us – what was it you said? ‘Declaring our undying love?”

“Well, I am!” Robb says defensively. “And you did!”

Sansa smiles at him. Robb recognizes that smile; she gives it to her kids when she’s indulging them. “Robb, I’d love it hear all about it, and I would really like to catch up, but could you just give me a second alone with Jon? I’ll come find you soon, is that okay?”

“Look,” Robb says, watching as Sansa curls in to Jon’s side, “I’ll give you two some time together but I hope you feel bad about it. You saw Jon like two years ago, but you haven’t seen _me_ in fifty-eight. You should feel ashamed.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at his dramatics. “Robb, it’s great to see you, but I would in fact like to greet the father of my children first. Now, I love you but I’m not _in_ love with you, so unless you’re in love with _me,_ could you leave me with the _actual_ love of my life – and afterlife apparently – for just a few seconds?”

Robb blinks rapidly for a few seconds, then says, “Incest has given you a disgusting sense of humour and I never want to hear any notion of a romance between the two of us fall from your lips again. So, yes, I _am_ going to leave but I have such a need to erase your suggestion from my mind that it will be for longer than a few seconds. Congratulations, you played yourself.”

Robb hears Jon chuckle behind him, Sansa’s tinkling laugh joining. In all honestly, Robb does understand. His parents had been the same way, and he would be the same with Talisa, if she had made her way to Winterfell. No amount of time would ever have been enough with her, and Jon and Sansa obviously feel the same about each other.

Besides, Robb is here forever. He has time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man i almost feel bad about everything i put my beloved characters through in this fic but alas, here we are, happy ending and all!
> 
> thank you so much everyone for your lovely support, you have no idea how much it's meant to me

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I feel like it has some dodgy themes in this first chapter, so if anyone wants me to add any tags/warnings, please let me know!


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